


An Invincible Spirit

by redletters



Category: Henry VI - Shakespeare
Genre: Demons, Gen, Love Potion/Spell, Magic, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 06:53:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2803553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redletters/pseuds/redletters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sorry, let me get this straight," Hume said. "When I asked you to wink-wink quote-unquote summon a demon, you actually...summoned a demon?"</p><p>Southwell and Bolingbroke exchanged a look of eyebrowed exasperation.</p><p>"Um," Margery said. "Yes?"</p><p>"Were we not supposed to?" Bolingbroke said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Invincible Spirit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dustseeing (dustseeing)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustseeing/gifts).



Everyone who knew Westminster knew Margery Jourdain. The Witch of Eye may not have been the best in London, but she was the best in walking distance from the palace, and she had everything a witch ought to have: long unbound waves of dark hair, a black cloak that glittered silvery in the dusk, a firm nose, a high brow, a herb garden, a dead husband, a persistent cough in winter. These kept traffic by her market stall coming, as did the plain fact which even her detractors and rivals would admit, that Margery Jourdain could make things happen. Not always, but most of the time. If a woman wanted a child, and she came to Mother Jourdain, Margery might look at her and send her away - but if she didn't, more than likely she'd be round and swelling within three months. If a woman wanted a child gone, even easier. It would slip away by the next cycle.

The worrying part was that very occasionally, things happened even when she didn't try.

On May Day the Duchess of Gloucester's ladies were at market, loosed for the day, giggling and looking over at her, and Margery could see them daring each other on. This usually led to a good sale, so she reached under her stall for a deck of cards and started shuffling them, and looking spooky. After a few moments one of the girls darted over, a pink girl of eighteen in an apple-green gown.

"Do you make," she asked breathlessly, " _love potions_?"

Of course Margery did, though creating love was a trivial affair, especially for a girl as flushed and bright as this one. It would hardly need doing at all. "Who's your intended?"

The girl looked sharply at her. "Never you mind," she said.

Margery shrugged. "It doesn't matter," she said, "but I'll need something of his."

"What sort of thing?"

"Oh, hair off his head, a cloth or shirt, the nearer to his heart the better. His seal or arms, best of all anything he's given you. Or, though it may take longer to work, I can sell you a potion to mix with whatever you have at home, or to drop in his drink – "

But the girl had nodded seriously, and slipped away again. Margery wrote it off as a noblewoman's trifle, until the next week, when the girl walked confidently up with a handkerchief held close in her fist. She set it on the table proudly.

Margery unwrapped the fine linen, and stared at the signet ring. "The Duke of Gloucester?"

"Ssh," the girl said.

"The _very married to your mistress,_ _brother to the king,_ Humphrey Plantagenet Duke of Gloucester?"

" _Ssh_ ," the girl said.

"Ten pounds," Margery said. The girl reached for her purse without blinking. Damn; Margery should have asked for more. "All right," she said, "er, I'll have it for you tomorrow. Try not to see him before then, it might – make the magic go wrong."

At home, Margery looked at the ring. It was good quality dark gold, if burnished a little from use. The girl had probably stolen it from her lady.

"This is a terrible idea," Margery said, and set the ring aside. She mixed the girl a cordial of rosewater and violet, with a splash of aqua vitae. It would taste like love and give her a warm thrill. The next day she duly handed the small bottle over, and didn't think of it again until the scandal broke later that year: Jacqueline of Hainault, divorced and humiliated, and Duke Humphrey taken up with one of her ladies, some knight's daughter, and married her possibly bigamously.

Oh, I hope I didn't do that, she thought.

On Twelfth Night, to Margery's mild horror, the Gloucesters came to the market to ostentatiously walk among the people of London. Good Duke Humphrey warmly clapped hands with the butcher and baker. His new duchess pointed at Margery, then at the duke, then winked broadly.

I _really_ hope I didn't do that, Margery thought. 

That was the last she saw of Lady Eleanor Cobham, Duchess of Gloucester, for nearly ten years.

Her business bloomed. In spring young lovers came to her to know their fortune. She looked at the possessive curve of his arm, and the slight angle of her shoulders away from his touch, trembling. "You'll wed and be happy," she prophesied. Others she looked at his slight arms, not good for farm work, but him too poor for aristocracy. "I see you in a strange land, full of pins and bunting," she foretold. He ran away to join a milliners' guild in Flanders, and made a fortune on hats. When he and his sweetheart finally wed, she was the finest dressed bride in Cheapside in ten years. She bought a sign, and painted it: MARGERY JOURDAIN, in silver on blue. LIVES SEEN. TRUTHS TOLD. FIVE PENCE. And below it, in cheerful yellow: LOVE MADE OR DESTROYED. CHILDREN, THE SAME.

After a few years, people began to ask if she could raise demons, or put on light shows, or read their fortunes in the stars. "No," she said, "I just do things, and see things." Some of them left at that. No one seemed to want a simple potion any more - astronomy and spell casting was all anyone asked about. Margery sewed stars onto her market cloak and thought about learning to write.

In December, at the end of a short cold day, a man rode up the road from the City. He was in finer dress than anyone in the market, though he'd gone to some small trouble to disguise it, smearing dirt on his cloak and roughing up his fine cap. He dismounted outside the square and walked around the corners, looking for something. Finally he came across her booth.

"Are you the Witch of Eye?" the man asked. He looked over her sign, over the table stacked with dried herbs, over Margery's face.

"I may be," Margery said. They liked that sort of mysterious talk, even when it was plain as day who you were. "What would you be wanting with the Witch?"

"I'm Thomas Southwell, doctor," he said, sounding aggrieved, "and you are _ruining_ my business at court."

Margery looked at the sun (setting), then at the people (shivering; leaving). Though her best business was usually from people sidling over to her as the market closed, breath was coming in white clouds and no one looked likely to do any sidling in the next twenty minutes.

"I think I could say the same of you," she said. She turned her sign around with a bang. "Let's go to the pub."

They went through several rounds of brown ale and a brief discussion of theology and practice, and arrived at the obvious conclusion, which was to go into business together. Margery would sell him and his partner herbs and potions that did what their magic couldn't. Southwell would teach her how to do proper, courtly magic: magic that looked fancy - magic that would sell.

"Some of the things we want to do, we need a lady for," Southwell confessed, signalling for the bill. "I'm not sure why. If Eve was taken from Adam's rib then surely there's nothing in Eve that is not in Adam - oh, except sin, I suppose," he said, brightening. "Maybe that's it!"

"Maybe," Margery said. She stood up and pulled her cloak together. "You're paying."

*

_Two years later_

John Hume brought the Duchess of Gloucester into the magicians' room. He noted with pleasure the weird horoscopes strewn around, the papers blackened at corners, the smell of herb smoke and old wood. A silver basin of water sat just in place to catch the moon through the window, and the fire burned low, taking in light rather than giving it out.

"This is just _thrilling_ ," the duchess purred.

From the dark behind them came a dry cackle, which curved down into a low laugh. Hume jumped. The duchess shivered and lifted her chin, determined to look like a picture of bravery. He could see the portrait she was writing in her head: intrepid lady, not so well born but beautiful, marries royalty, maybe clever enough to become queen. He reached into his pocket and felt Suffolk's gold safe against his thigh. Very well. He led her up to the viewing-balcony, and signalled the magicians to begin their show.

The witch stepped into the light cast by the circle of candles, her black hair loose about her ears. Doctor Southwell and Doctor Bolingbroke moved behind her like parallel automatons, chanting low and fast, rising and falling together. Hume caught a few of their words – _ovorum et laridi! panem, pultem, panem, pultem!_ – and hoped Lady Cobham didn't speak Latin. Though from her thrilled eyes and fervently parted mouth, she was hanging on every grocer's-list syllable. The witch cried out and fell on the floor, jerking her head and body as if pulled by unseen strings. The candles, somehow, grew brighter and redder, and flickered.

The duchess gasped and took Hume's arm.

Hume hardly noticed; he was tallying up the cost of perfumed candlewax in his head.

A rumble came, and built. The window erupted in brilliance as if it were day, a dark red light, like a solar eclipse: Hume saw Lady Cobham's face distorted in awe and thrill.

A horrible shape appeared in the circle, made of fire and shadows.

"Oh, _wow_ ," the duchess said.

The demon pointed to the conjurers, to the pair perched above them. "I am here," it said. Its voice was a low crackling roar.

The witch sat up. "Great," she said. "Rog, where's the–?"

Bolingbroke patted at his clothing. "Oh, right – here – " He pulled out a paper and read Lady Cobham's questions. The spirit answered.

Hume didn't think they were particularly useful responses, but whatever the duchess was hoping to hear, it was good enough. He counted to forty, while the figure flailed about and hissed and spat. Whatever the magicians used to make it, it was good – dark silk for the shadows, maybe, and bombast for the fire? But how was it not burning up? And how were they propelling it?

At sixty the spirit disappeared, and the witch slumped to the ground, looking exhausted. Southwell was sweating, and even Bolingbroke had the sheen of effort on his upper lip.

There was a hammering at the door, and men's voices.

*

In jail, Margery sat in the corner with her legs tucked under her, sorting the herbs back into packets after they'd been jumbled during the arrest. Bolingbroke and Southwell gave off a faint air of annoyance.

Hume was _indignant_. He had been indignant for at least two hours - ever since York and Suffolk's men had pushed him in the cell behind the three magicians, paying no heed to his winks or to his outright protests - and he had no intention of stopping now. But since the guard was no longer listening, he turned his indignation onto his cell-mates.

"And how did you make it look so damned realistic, anyway?" he demanded. "I'm not paying you for the silk."

"I wish I could afford silk," Margery said.

"How did it burn? Some kind of waxed cloth?"

Bolingbroke looked utterly baffled. "It burned because it's a demon from hell, John."

There was a pause.

"Sorry, let me get this straight," Hume said. "When I asked you to wink-wink quote-unquote summon a demon, you actually...summoned a demon?"

Southwell and Bolingbroke exchanged a look of eyebrowed exasperation.

"Um," Margery said. "Yes?"

"Were we not supposed to?" Bolingbroke said.

Hume didn't look up. He had slid to the floor with the inexorability of an avalanche and sat slumped with his back to the wall. He stared at the cold dirty ceiling of the cell as if it might open, and the heavens explain to him what had gone wrong, and offer up a way to fix everything. The heavens did not.

"I didn't think demons existed," he said, half-mumbling. He felt, rather than saw, the others exchange a look over his head. "Anyway," he continued, feeling his righteous crossness begin to build up again, "I don't believe you. What sort of summoning chant was that? Eggs and bacon? Sausage? Come on, what demon would be compelled by that?"

"Oh, that was Roger's idea!" Southwell said, looking over at his partner with professional pride. "He was the one who figured it out - it's much nicer to offer a demon something it actually wants, instead of forcing it to come, which is much harder to get to work, you know."

"Everyone likes a cooked breakfast," Bolingbroke said. "Which one was it, by the way?"

"Which what was what?"

"Which demon did we summon?"

Hume jolted up straight. "You don't _know_?"

"Civilians," Southwell sighed.

" _Subcontractors_ ," Hume snapped.

Margery didn't answer. She was thinking about what the demon had whispered to her: _Beware the next Duke of Gloucester._

*

Late the next night, the queen summoned Margery, who was extremely surprised, and sure her face showed it.

Queen Margaret was younger than she, and thinner and weaker. Not by constitution - her shoulders were square and her mouth was set with a determination Margery was happy to recognise - but simply that her shoulders were not used to hefting a tent, packing and unpacking a booth every night, carrying a heavy bag of anything a paying customer might want, from rue to love-in-idleness.

"How can I help your majesty?" Margery said. She remembered to curtsey just in time. What an odd week this had been.

"I was told you're good with children," Queen Margaret said.

Margery saw not only a chance at liberty, but at royal patronage. "Oh, yes, I love children!" she said. "My favourite size and shape. Which one do we mean?"

"One not yet born," the queen said carefully. "One I want to create."

"Not a problem," Margery said, thinking of what would be needed. "Out of air, out of water, fire or smoke? In yourself, in another woman? To die or to live?"

The queen thought, and didn't take her eyes off Margery, who was still wearing her market cloak of black and sewn silver stars. "Out of - earth, I suppose, clay or dust," she said. "I mean, the substance of myself and my husband. In myself," she said crisply, "and not in any other woman."

"Sure," Margery said. "Just so we're clear, and not getting so theological we don't understand each other, you want to conceive the natural way?"

"Yes," the queen said.

"Does it have to be with your husband?"

There was a too-long pause, before "Of course!", quickly. "Well. Yes, yes, it had better be."

"Leave it with me," Margery said.

So Margery worked hard on a child to please the queen, although she didn't have her usual equipment and the magicians had been moved to another cell, so she couldn't ask Tom for advice about substitutions.

There had been a fair bit of magic left in the air after the demon left, and as she couldn't reach her household magic, she scooped that residue up and used it to help mould the child. It wasn't quite fit, despite her efforts. The shape was a bit off and the soul not quite right - so Margery gave it a deep, secret need for love, which she reasoned would surely stop it from going too far wrong.

But when Queen Margaret summoned her again after a fortnight, Margery was disappointed. The queen looked more tired, but less anxious: "Why, you're with child already," Margery said.

"Really?" the queen said, and looked thoughtful. "Really. Well! I didn't think - well. How surprising!"

"How annoying," Margery said, without thinking. She was _sure_ she hadn't done anything, and now what was she going to do with this one?

"Is it?" the queen asked. She was smiling, almost laughing.

"Oh, no, your majesty! It's just that, er, I have the one I've made," and she stopped herself from saying, and I'm not sure how to get rid of it safely, since I've never made one like this.

The queen absolutely was laughing now, and settled her hands warmly on her belly. "Oh, I'm with child," she whispered to herself, then said with a cheery wave, "Send yours to Dame Cecily Neville, she's got enough of them. She won't be trailing them around pointedly in front of me any more, that's for certain..."

It wasn't until Margery was being led away that she realised the queen might have been joking.


End file.
